| Deceased |
| Mare :: Equine :: 15.3 :: 15 |
| Alex |
If I had pity, most wouldn't know it. I don't even know 'pity'. "Sympathetic or kindly sorrow evoked by the suffering, distress, or misfortune of another, often leading one to give relief or aid or to show mercy". Pity is weakness. Therefore, it is non-existent within my gray body. Pity, like sadness, is a way past hard armor. So I utilize it, but I do not feel the definition of it. Act it, yes. But feel it, no. Weaklings would say pity is what develops one, creates an emphatic and understanding character.
It is a pity I do not feel pity.
I had, in fact, been walking this shore for quite some time, debating on the righteousness of entering the World's Edge and the righteousness of mares or femmes in general. It is a disgrace for mares to lead, unless, of course, it is me. Mirage- Kri- Svetlana- ha! They deserve to be ripped off their high thrones and thrown into the dumps, to be replaced by a proper queen, one such as me, or by my sons. I do not wish to hold the throne myself- I do not have visions of grandeur. I wish all my sons were to achieve greatness, like Archibald and Evers. Those two have reached great heights, and they haven't fallen yet.
I squint, half-closing heather eyes, glaring at a stallion with the horns of a ram. Cute enough, in a shaggy kind of way, with frosty brown fur that hangs off his chubby, round frame. Certainly not a warrior enough for children, although I'm not certain I want to raise another son at the moment. What's he doing lingering near the World's Edge cliffs? He does not smell of the pine-salt-rime Edge. Ah. An Outcast. One of the fabled bad guys, the Ex-Edge.
"Whatever are you doing here?" I call, hooves digging into the wet sand as I narrow the distance. I consider morphing to a black jaguar, just to watch the goat run in fear, but I do not want to pounce and roar and chase, so I will talk. If he disappoints, well, I'll reconsider.
"Something to say."
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